It's Safer that Way
by Shaindl
Summary: Prequel Era - An anonymous knight is on a mission with a Master/Padawan team and reflects on the events that take place.


**Personal Journal, 15th Day, 3rd Month, Standard year 5367**

I think I'm jealous.

I know, I know – not a particularly becoming emotion for a Jedi, but there you go.

I suppose to explain, I should talk about my Master. He was a good Jedi – strong in the Force, skilled in its use. He taught me everything necessary to make me a good Knight – made me run through katas until I couldn't stand, drilled me on Jedi history and philosophy until I knew it backwards and forwards, all the fun stuff like that.

But we were never close.

He ensured that I would be a capable, efficient Jedi, able to think and move fast when necessary, able to trust in the Force, how to be a capable diplomat, but he never took the time to get to know the person inside the Jedi. We never came close to developing the close, almost parental relationship that some lucky pairs do.

Which brings me to why I'm jealous. I'm on a mission with perhaps the closest Master – Padawan pair I've ever seen. It's been…hard, being with them. They're so finely attuned to one another that I think even without their training bond they would know what the other is thinking. There are times when I know they're communicating even when the Force isn't swirling and eddying around them like it does when they're using their bond to speak to each other. A smile here, a glance there is all it takes for one to let the other know how they feel or what they think.

Oh, they're trying hard to include me, but can anyone really be included in a relationship like that? I don't think so, for there's no surface to which I can attach myself. They're two halves of a whole, fitting together perfectly. There just isn't room for anyone else. 

Forget think. I know I'm jealous.

* * * * * * * * 

**Personal Journal, 20th Day, 3rd Month, Standard year 5367**

Maybe I was wrong. I'm not so sure I'm jealous anymore.

Is that kind of Master – Padawan relationship worth the possible pain it can bring?

I simply don't know.

For three days now, I've been sitting in a med centre on this Force-forsaken planet, watching a Master beg his Padawan not to die. Even though I'm no stranger to death and destruction, it's quite possibly the worst thing I've ever seen. I truly think that if the Padawan goes, the Master will go with him. Oh, probably not in the literal sense, but he'll lose such a big part of himself, there won't be any bringing him back.

It doesn't matter how it happened, really. We were ambushed, drowned by vastly superior numbers, saved only by the sudden appearance of government troops. We gave them a fight though – and what a fight it was. My Master and I, despite our lack of closeness, fought well together. But we had nothing – nothing – on these two. They moved as one, each perfectly complementing the other, the acrobatic style of the younger fitting together seamlessly with the more ground-based attack of the elder.

But even a well-oiled machine like them will fall if the numbers facing it are sufficient. I saw the Padawan go down – surrounded by a ring of blasters, even he couldn't move fast enough or jump high enough to evade them. But as bad as it was seeing him fall, I think it was worse seeing the Master.

The Master and Padawan had been separated during the fighting and since I was facing the Padawan, I didn't see the Master's reaction when his apprentice fell, but I certainly heard it. He let out a sound I've never heard before, and hope to whatever deities may be listening I never hear again. It was a cross between a roar and a scream, the sound that a mortally wounded animal makes when it is injured. Suddenly, I discovered where the Padawan had learned his high-flying style – a brown shape somersaulted over my head – no mean feat considering how tall I am – and landing so that he was straddling the prone form of his apprentice.

Have you ever watched a holovid of a Mykorian lion defending its catling from predators? That's what this reminded me of – the Master was ruthless, moving with an economy of movement that could only mean one thing – death to any who opposed him. There's no doubt that he would have fallen, as I would have, if the soldiers hadn't happened by, but the Master would have delivered a great many of them to their Maker before he did.

When the fighting stopped and the soldiers began to round up those rebels who were still alive, I watched as the Master dropped to his knees and gathered his apprentice in his arms. I caught the attention of a soldier who looked like she might have some authority and got her to call for a med team, although I didn't think it would be much use, since I had seen how many shots had the Padawan had taken. 

But the Master had other ideas. I suddenly felt him call on more Force power than I had ever felt in one place before, channeling it into the still form he held. Through sheer willpower and determination, he held on to his Padawan's life, refusing to let it go. 

What is love? I've wondered as I've been sitting here, watching as the Master continually whispers to his apprentice, assuring him he'll be all right, and they'll go home to the Temple soon. Was it love to try and save his life, or would it have been more loving to just let him go back there on that dusty road? There's no guarantee that the apprentice will wake up – if he wakes up – the person he was, and might that not be more difficult for the Master to handle than his Padawan's death?

And again, all I can say is that I simply don't know.

* * * * * * * *

**Personal Journal, 22nd Day, 3rd Month, Standard year 5367**

The Padawan died today.

The fates seem to want to keep outdoing themselves when it comes to the worst thing I've ever seen. First it was the sight of an honoured Jedi Master doing whatever it took to protect his Padawan from people who wanted him dead. Then it was watching that same Jedi Master lean over a med bed, begging his Padawan to come back to him. Now it's watching that same Jedi Master sitting on the bed, his long legs dangling over the side, holding the shell of his Padawan in his arms. 

He's silent – no tears, no wailing, none of the things one might expect from someone so bereaved. It's worse than I feared. The Jedi Master that was once there is now gone, replaced with an empty, withered husk. I was right; when his apprentice died, the Master went with him, and there's no bringing him back.

It makes me wonder why we subject ourselves to the possibility of that much pain. Why do we do this to ourselves? Surely it's easier to reject that burden and to face life alone. 

I'm kidding myself. I know why most accept the burden.

To have what those two had, would be…incredible. The depth of understanding, respect and love I saw between them in just a few days was awe-inspiring, and I can't imagine having that connection with someone. But at the same time, I don't know if I have the courage to risk myself like that. What would I do if any apprentice I took turned to the Dark Side? If an apprentice of mine died? Could I face becoming what the man before me has become? Could I live with that kind of pain?

I don't know.

My job now is to get us back to Coruscant, to the Temple, where the Padawan can be given a proper Jedi funeral, and where there are people who can perhaps save his Master. But I'm hesitating, reluctant to speak to the Master, understanding somehow that he needs, at least for a little while, to be left alone with his Padawan imagining what was and what should have been. We'll have to leave soon, but I can give him some time. 

It an almost physical pain to look in the Master's eyes. No one should have to experience that kind of soul-numbing grief. 

I'm getting to the point in my Jedi life where Master Yoda is going to start urging me to take a Padawan, but after what's happened here, I don't know if I could open myself up to that kind of risk. If I do take a Padawan, better to maintain the kind of relationship my Master had with me – competent but detached, stern but kind, companionable but not parental. 

It's safer that way.


End file.
